Expected Inquisition
by Lady Karasu
Summary: It would be a simple thing to deny Sherlock, save his own skin at the cost of – what? ...what did the unwavering faith of one soon-to-be-unemployed DI change on the grand scale of things?  Post-Reichenbach; Semi-related to 'Collateral Damage'


Tumblr Askfic written for Random-nexus last night after the muse literally _made me get out of bed_ to write it; not quite 3am fic, but nearly. Semi-related to 'Collateral Damage'

Title: Expected Inquisition  
>Word Count: 722<br>Rating: PG-13 (minor language)  
>Characters: Lestrade<br>Warnings: Post Reichenbach, so mentions of death; also, self-beta'd

oOoOo

He stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. The Spanish inquisition had come, and he was refusing to renounce his faith. The allegory was near enough the truth that he stopped the near automatic association with 'Spanish Inquisition' and 'Monty Python' before it could even start. There was no humor to be had in this.

It would be a simple thing to deny Sherlock, save his own skin at the cost of – what? The man was dead, his reputation destroyed, what did the unwavering faith of one soon-to-be-unemployed DI change on the grand scale of things? What did it matter if he kept it close to his heart, quiet in his mind, and went along with the spectacle, the forgone destruction of a great man to save his own skin?

He wasn't the only one to have used the man's services, his brilliance; they couldn't single him out as a scapegoat if he only followed the lead of the others – claim trickery, claim the man a genius actor, if only a genius in that; agree he was a fraud, and all would be forgiven.

The mere thought tasted of bile, screwed his face up in distaste. Sherlock had been a lot of things, many of them unsavory, but he had not been a fraud. A prick? More often than not. Condescending? Most certainly. Impatient, impertinent, impulsive? Yes, yes, yes. But never a fraud. The man was brilliant, and put his everything, literally his everything into solving the cases; they were his life's-blood. He may not have done it for the same reasons as Lestrade, but they were on the same side, and he would not sully that, would not diminish that in the face of this changing tide. That he knew it would take him under as well changed nothing.

Really, he hadn't the worst of it; what was he losing in the end? His job, a bit of his reputation, but who knew him outside of the met? He'd find a new job and move on; would go on living his life, largely unnoticed and uncommented upon. Look at Mrs. Hudson, who received hate mail on the deceased detective's behalf; the unwashed masses thinking it a lark to take their impotent hostility out on an old woman whose only crime was housing and befriending the mad, brilliant man. Look at John, who had no peace since his _best friend's_ death; who could go nowhere without being recognized, harassed, sometimes followed, threatened. He hadn't even been allowed privacy in mourning; followed to the very grave, a grave he found defaced more than once – set to cleaning alone, because no one else would do it; but they would watch, and jeer as he did.

No, this? This was nothing.

_'Sentiment, Lestrade?'_, said the voice in the back of his head that belonged to Sherlock, _'Really, it's unnecessary, don't you think? They can't hurt me, I'm dead, and I never cared what anyone thought of me to begin with. You know the truth; I know the truth; that's all that matters.'_

He shook the thought away, annoyed that even his subconscious thought he was an idiot – that even in death Sherlock was still being difficult. _ 'You'd do the same for me'_, he thought back – and it wasn't true, he knew, but he would have done something else, something clever; something that would have helped. Sherlock had never been one for grand gestures unless they produced results (and then he owned the stage, the theatre, and half the block with it). The only result he could really expect from this was a diminished income and a black mark on his record. But there were times a man had to stand for something – and Sherlock was something he believed in, something they couldn't take away from him, because as crazy as the man had made him (and nearly everyone around him), he wouldn't have traded knowing him for anything. Not one damn thing.

When they escorted him out, he held his head high, made eye contact with everyone who had the balls to meet his; and his look said _'You know. You knew him, knew what he could do, and you turned on him to save your arse. You think you're on the side of justice? You're nothing.'_

No one met his eye twice.


End file.
